


in from the cold

by haloud



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: April Foster (OC), Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Wade Foster (OC)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: It's the winter of 2004, and out on Foster's Homestead Ranch, Wade Foster wakes from a dead sleep. When he goes to investigate the source of the disturbance he feels, he finds something he couldn't have expected.





	in from the cold

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is not for redistribution without my express permission.

Wade and April Foster never had children of their own.

April came from a big family, eight brothers and three sisters. All the time the two of them were dating, she’d swear up and down she’d never do what her mama did, that she wouldn’t live her life that way, and Wade didn’t expect that to ever change, not the day he asked her to marry him and not fifteen years later. Sometimes Wade wondered what it would’ve been like but didn’t ever think on it like it was a regret. The occasional kids from the town and the nearby farms, boys and girls around fifteen and sixteen, would come around looking for work and Wade’d show them what to do, and April’d make them all lunch and they’d all eat it together at a long table set up in the yard, and he’d talk, and the kids would listen. And that was enough, really, to feed that part of his soul.

February that year turns out to be one of the wettest on record, but that night the sky is clear and sparkling with stars. The ugly slush covering the ground freezes hard and merciless, but in the moonlight it manages to sparkle too.

Wade wakes at one am with dread sitting on his chest. He flings off the quilt and sits up straight in bed, darts his eyes from one dark, cold corner to the next, but nothing changes, nothing lurks in the shadows, nothing to explain the icy sweat on his neck, the clawed panic threatening his lungs.

“Wade?” April asks, voice muffled by the pillow until she sits up too, passing a hand over her face. “What time is it? What’s wrong?”

“Not sure.” He glances at the window, but it’s as flat and black as anything else. “I—ought to go walk the fence a bit. The last storm knocked a few feet over, and—something doesn’t feel right.”

“You’ll freeze! I’m sure it was just a dream…”

“I won’t be gone more than half an hour,” Wade says, and he bends over to kiss her shoulder before moving to reach for his boots.

April follows him out to the den and watches with her brow furrowed as he layers on his coat, scarf, gloves, and hat. “Take one of the dogs with you at least. You’re acting strange, and I’m worried about you.”

“It’ll just be a short walk. I just gotta—I don’t know. Check on something. I _know _it’s strange. I can’t explain it…”

“I’m sitting up and waiting for you, and if you’re not back quick I’m coming after you, alright?”

Her eyes are flinty, her jaw set, and it’s with all the love in Wade’s heart that he leans in to kiss her cheek.

“I won’t leave the fence line. That’s where I’ll be.”

“Go on, then.”

April shivers in the blast of cold air when Wade opens the door, and when it falls shut behind him it’s as if all the sound in the world falls shut as well. The night is so quiet—no wild creatures roaming about, all the bugs dead in the cold, no distant sound of thunder. Only a single, scrubbed cloud chases across the clear black night, the moon so bright Wade doesn’t even bother to take his flashlight off his belt. It’s so quiet his ears start to ring deep in his skull, an aggravating, piercing reflex sound, as if his teeth weren’t already on edge.

Shoving his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the chill wind, Wade sets off toward the west, keeping the fence on his left side. When he was a boy, he’d stay up late into the night reading comics under his bedsheets. And sometimes on those nights, the porch light would click on outside, and he’d crouch under the windowsill and watch his daddy set out along the fence just like he’s doing now. Wade never knew what he was searching for. Being just a boy, he’d been afraid that if he asked at breakfast he’d get his comics taken away. Then that summer the military men started coming by more often, and Wade stopped asking questions altogether, and his daddy stopped answering.

Maybe this is all his father did too. Wake up with a bone-deep wrongness in his body and walk out into the night until the foolishness built up in him high enough to send him back the way he came. Maybe he, too, was just a superstitious old man who worried his wife in the middle of a winter night for no good reason.

Just before Wade decides to turn around, he spies a patch of churned-up dirt right where the land dips down into a little hollow. Living near a small town, there’s no shortage of fool things kids will get up to on the property. It’s not uncommon for workers on the ranch to go out Saturday and Sunday mornings and find tire tracks, beer bottles, and cigarette butts in some corner of the land.

Usually, though, there’s no nonsense like that to deal with until winter breaks. Wade’s already come this far out, so he might as well check it out. If nothing else, he’ll know what needs cleaning up and can come back out the next morning.

It’s no mischief Wade sees when he looks down into the hollow, though, no vandalism, no litter. What he sees is a _person, _a skinny boy something older than a child but younger than a teen, wearing no hat and nothing warmer than an oversized hoodie, curled up into a ball, tucked up against a bank of earth.

Shaking off his shock, Wade hollers down to him, and when there’s no response he approaches, fear starting to rise in his gorge.

The boy is pale and lifeless, nonresponsive even when Wade shakes him, when he grabs his face, pries his eyes open, checks for breath. Frost rims his eyelashes. Groundwater seeps through the knees of Wade’s thick work pants, and it’s cold, so cold. This kid’s skin is cold like that too, except where Wade lays his hand to check his pulse, which is fever-hot and racing.

So he’s alive, at least, but that doesn’t make him any less of a mystery. There are no vehicle tracks around, except for the probability that this hollow was dug out by some four-wheeler a decade or more ago and made a part of the landscape. And what’s more, a quick once-over and a check of the kid’s pockets turns up no drugs, no bottles of pills or liquor, no needles.

So what—some kid just _walked _out to Foster’s Ranch, all by his lonesome, and it wasn’t even to get high where he thought no one’d find him? Just thought he’d take a nap in the freezing friggin’ cold?

Unless he was dumped, of course. Like a kitten in a river.

“Shit and damnation,” Wade mutters under his breath, along with a hundred other curses that’d make his daddy blush. Not wasting any more time, he hauls the kid’s dead weight onto his back and stands himself up on crackling knees, and climbs out of the hollow. There’s nothing to do to warm him up but get him back to the house, but for good measure, Wade takes his hat off and sticks it over the kid’s head instead to protect his ears from the wind.

The walk back to the house feels easily twice as long, and it’s not because of the burden he’s hauling, because this kid might be 90 pounds soaking wet—which he just about is, for all he’s been laying in the snow.

Wade glances behind him to check if the kid’s still asleep—still passed out, maybe—and his heart gives a sharp thud when he meets a single unfocused hazel eye watching him. It squeezes shut again the second Wade notices he’s awake, and that thin chest starts hiccupping against his back.

“Hey, hey, kid,” he tries, as soft as he can manage but still loud like a cracking whip in the silent night and hell, oh hell, what the hell is he supposed to do, “Dunno what fool thought had you out here in freezing temperatures, but I’m gonna get you inside, and you’ll get nice and warm, ain’t that right?”

What should he _say? _How old is this kid, anyway? He’s always been shit at guessing that sort of thing, never spending all that much time around kids other than the odd niece or nephew, whose ages he gets to track by sending cards every year.

The kid doesn’t say anything, but by the time Wade climbs the porch stairs he’s fully awake and shaking so badly his teeth rattle in Wade’s ear.

“Wade! What in the Lord’s name—” April almost shouts as she flings the door open, having seen them through the window. The sound and the motion startle the boy, who pushes off from Wade’s back so fiercely that Wade drops him. He hits the ground with an awful _thud _but doesn’t cry out; he jumps up and tries to bolt off into the night, but his legs are as weak as a newborn colt’s, and he doesn’t make it far.

“Help me get him inside,” Wade says, and April bustles over. They each take one arm and march him inside, sitting him at the kitchen table as Wade starts to take off his winter things and April starts the kettle. The boy grips the seat of the chair beneath him. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes dart around the room like he’s looking for an escape, and he’s still shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“What _happened?” _April demands, and as the kettle heats up she comes over to peel off the kid’s wet clothes, starting with his battered tennis shoes and soaked socks, chafing at his bare feet to get circulation flowing again. Slowly coming out of his catatonic state, he helps a bit by removing his huge hoodie. The shirt underneath is still dry, but thin and threadbare. He hugs himself, and visibly tries to stop the shaking.

“He was just inside the fence. I found him sleeping. What were you thinking, boy?”

Wade tries to keep his voice from booming, but it’s a near thing. He’s never been so scared in all his life as when this kid was cold and limp under his hand and has no idea what he would have done if it had been one of his nieces or nephews. Maybe to soften the blow of his voice, he grabs a quilt off the back of the couch and drops it over the boy’s shoulders as he passes, with a gruff “warm yourself up.”

He sits in the seat across the table from the boy and waits for an answer. In the silence, the kettle begins to whistle, and April goes over to make a mug of tea. Once done, she plunks it on the table in front of the kid and comes around to sit beside Wade, and he clutches her hand, seeking strength.

What are they supposed to do with this…child? Where does he belong? It’s February and this boy is sitting at Wade and April’s kitchen table in a gray t-shirt and baggy vinyl pants, a man’s soft knit hat jammed down over his curls. The quilt just sits on his shoulders like it’s made of lead, him not touching it in the slightest. He hasn’t touched the mug of tea in front of him either.

“Want cocoa instead? Coffee?”

Boy like him might like that, Wade figures, being treated like he’s all grown up. But he just shakes his head twice, robotically, still staring into the steam without taking so much as a sip. His whole body should still be shaking as he warms back up, but now that he’s alert he stays still as death even as his lips go from blue-gray back to pink.

“You’re stayin’ the night, boy, so you might as well go ahead and get warm,” April chimes in.

“What is wrong with you people,” the boy finally speaks, and his voice is as robotic as his posture. He smiles, but there’s no joy in it at all, just trouble, as he lifts his eyes to Wade’s. “I was trespassing. Vandalizing. Wasting my childhood making crop circles because it’s fucking funny that we actually fucking live in fucking Roswell. Call the fucking cops already.”

“Only thing I’m callin’ out at this time of night is that language, young man,” April says sternly, but she still gets up to fuss, tucking the quilt more tightly around those skinny shoulders. The boy flinches at her shadow over him, before turning his spine back to steel to brace for every little touch. A lead weight in his stomach, Wade strokes his beard and leans back in his chair.

He says, “And I may be getting’ up there in years, but it doesn’t take a young man’s eyes to see you were just sleeping. And trying to get yourself dead, maybe.” Maybe he doesn’t want to lay the lecture down too hard on a boy with eyes like that, but it’d be downright criminal not to say something. At least it was a field this time and not a parking lot or an alleyway or the dubious hospitality of some other stranger.

At least it was _his _field. Foster’s Homestead Ranch is a place for strangers when they’ve got the need; least that’s how it was under Wade’s father, and his father’s father. And Lord knows they’ve had some strangers over the years.

“Not like anyone would fucking care.”

Wade’s hand stills on his beard as silence falls like two thick feet of snow over the kitchen. April’s hand stops halfway to her mouth, and they exchange a look. Both of them have a long history of handling spooked horses, but not so much with children. When this boy’s eyes snap up, all wide and wild and white, neither of them have any real idea how to soothe him, how to keep him from kicking or bolting or hurting himself worse.

“I didn’t mean that. I’m fine. I need to go.” He blurts, words tumbling all over themselves, and he jumps to his feet.

“Door’s unlocked, if that’s so,” Wade says carefully, “But I don’t know if you’ll make it back to town by morning, and it won’t be getting any warmer.”

The boy’s nose scrunches up in a big sniff, and his lip wobbles dangerously for a second, just a second, and then he’s schooled his features back into sullen blankness. It’s too damn much that a kid would have that level of control. Wade and April exchange another look while the boy glares between them.

“I can drive you back in the morning while Wade gets on with the chores,” April says. “This time of year, missing a pair of hands for an hour or two won’t matter all that much.”

“I think that’s a fine idea,” Wade adds.

Still no response from the kid, who stays standing frozen in the middle of the living room, his narrow shoulders slumped, his eyes staring at his bare feet. Wade and April exchange a silent conversation, Wade inclining his head slightly toward the stairs, and April considering it before nodding sharply and standing up.

“Well, in that case, I’ll turn in,” she says. “It’ll be an early morning. Best you get some sleep as well, son.”

And she heads for the stairs. Wade, however, stays right where he is. There’s still something he’d like to say—he has to say _something—_but for what he has to say, he doesn’t want the kid to feel like he’s surrounded, like adults are ganging up on him.

He says, “Take a seat down there on the couch.”

The boy swallows big, and a frown pulls down his mouth. Slowly, keeping his eyes on Wade and his body square to the door, he sits down perched on the very edge of the couch, feet planted on the floor. Wade sighs again, for the thousandth time that night, feeling just as many thousand years old. For god’s sake, he’s just a kid.

“What’s your name?” Wade asks, hoping he gets an answer.

“Michael Guerin. You might’ve heard of me.” The boy lifts his chin, and he’s got that punk look down pat, calculated to piss authority figures right off.

“Don’t get much gossip up here, turns out,” he says, and it takes a bit of the piss and vinegar out of the kid.

“Oh.”

_Oh _is right. First thing this boy’s gonna learn is that Wade can’t be goaded like a school bully, whether that bully’s a kid, a teacher, or a principal. Speaking of: “You going to school, Michael Guerin?”

“Yeah. Most of the time.”

“Good. But that school’s gonna be letting out in a couple months, isn’t it?”

“I mean, it’s still gonna be a while. Not until June.”

“Close enough. When your summer break starts, I want you to come back up here and work for me, Michael Guerin.”

The kid’s head jerks up so fast Wade’s neck twinges in sympathy. Those hard hazel eyes, too old for that young face, bore straight into Wade, into his skull, like the kid wants to scoop his brains out and stick each lump under a microscope until he understands what’s going on.

“What?” Is all Michael says, and it’s more of a demand than a question.

Wade just shrugs. “It’s called a job, kid.”

“My coworkers gonna be other fuckups you found trespassing?”

Wade nods slowly and gets up, even though his back and knees are aching from the cold and not enough sleep, to make himself a mug of tea from the last of the water in the kettle. Thinking through his answer, he speaks slowly, “Some of ‘em might be people I happened to have an idea could use a break and a leg up in the world, alright. Some of ‘em just like the work and know my money’s good. I won’t be telling you or anyone who’s who.”

“Why are you doing this? You’ve said it over and over again that I’m just a kid.”

“Growing kid might get more out of the work than an already grown man. I started working here for my daddy when I was younger than you by far.”

Michael goes silent for a moment. His mouth flattens into a thin line, then opens like he’s going to speak, then flattens again.

“You’re just gonna fire me after a little while,” he finally says, and he’s recaptured that punkish look, that lifted chin, that sarcastic challenge in his voice.

Wade sits down before he responds, stirring sugar into his tea. “Oh yeah? Why’s that.”

“Animals don’t like me. And I’ll be late. I’ve got the worst tardies of anyone in my class.”

Nodding and leaning back in his chair, Wade strokes his beard again. He can at least do the kid the courtesy of pretending to treat his worries like they’re valid, like there’s any reason in hell he’s gonna let this kid go off into the night without some kind of lifeline.

“Well, you’re a bit young to be livin’ in the quarters with the other men I hire on for the season, but we’ve got lots of empty rooms around. I’m sure we could find you a place, and that’ll fix that.”

“I don’t want special treatment,” Michael snaps.

“Special? Shoot. Those other boys get to take their own time in the morning so long as they’re ready to work when the bell rings, but if you’re livin’ up here with me ‘n April you’ll be up long before the sun and no excuses. You’d have a funny understanding of ‘special’ if that’s what you’d call that.

“As for the animals,” Wade continues, “Animals can get acquainted with just about anybody. Just gotta get them used to you. Nothing to fear.”

Michael has no response for that. In fact, he ducks his chin, tucks it against his chest, like he can’t stand to be looking at Wade anymore. And Wade has no idea if he’s gotten through. If he’s done this kid any good at all. But that’s probably enough for one night, and the clock’s ticking over into the early hours of the morning. At this rate, Wade won’t be getting any more sleep at all.

“You get yourself some rest. April’ll take you back to town in the morning, got that?”

Michael nods. Wade leaves his tea on the end table, hopeful Michael will drink it and keep warming himself up some more.

He makes up the lumpy old couch with some nice clean sheets and a pillow or two from his and April’s own bed. The farmhouse has other bedrooms, of course, places for all kinds of guests and all kinds of family, but Wade and April like a solitary life and haven’t taken the time to clean or heat those rooms in months. He gets the boy situated, then he sits on the stairs and waits until Michael is asleep before going to fetch his wife.

* * *

They creep back downstairs, and April follows Wade out onto the porch, closing the door behind herself with the softest of clicks. Arms folded, she says, “It’s _cold. _I don’t want you going out there again tonight.”

Wade sighs and adjusts the brim of his hat, then reaches out to put his hands on his shoulders and pull her close. “There’ll be satellite images and tourists coming around to poke their noses in. It can’t wait.”

“I know. I knew when I married you what this land was about.” April tucks her sweater tighter around her shoulders. “What about him? Do you think I should leave the kitchen light on?”

“Might be for the best. Keep the dark away tonight…and help light the way if he decides to run for it after all.”

“I wish there was more we could do.”

“Aye. But dry clothes, a hot drink, and a place to sleep…that’ll have to do for one night.”

“I suppose. Be _careful, _Wade.”

They kiss there on the porch, cold-tipped noses pressed to cheeks, breaths clouding the space between them, while the ancient old windchime hanging from the eaves tinkles a melancholy tune. April doesn’t go back inside until Wade turns to look at her from the head of the driveway, before he turns the bend and heads once more to the hollow in the west.

He retraces his steps, following his own footprints. A little cloud cover has rolled in, but some of the stars still shine through, and the moon is altogether uncovered, leaving him plenty of light to work by.

He takes his hoe to the hard-packed mud and ice. It takes him twenty minutes to break up the first circle of three, turning it over into fresh earth.

**Author's Note:**

> i just want michael to have AN responsible adult SOMEWHERE IN HIS LIFE, OK
> 
> discord @ haloud  
tumblr @ cosmicsolipsism


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